


Devaron's Angels: one-shots

by gloamingchild



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 18,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22067515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloamingchild/pseuds/gloamingchild
Summary: a collection of my short stories for Devaron's Angels. many of these were written for weekly writing prompts. all have individual topics and ratings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegrain Vox
> 
> 5 BBY, months after the massacre of Montellian Serat and becoming an Angel

Sieg hurried through the base, distant chatter grating against his ears like screams. He burst through the entrance and hit the dirt running. Discordant voices and laughs echoed in his wake. It wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop.

He wanted to  _ shut them up _ \--

_ NO _ .

He tore through the jungle with no direction or purpose. He darted around trees, jumped over roots, and ducked under vines like a beast gnashed at his heels. But there was no beast--just him. Just him. The red veins on leafy bushes reminded him of alien blood and no, no, fuck, too late, the stray thought sent droplets of blood sparkling through the jungle like macabre gems. The ground soaked itself in crimson.

_ Not again. _

Sieg smashed into the side of a tree and hit the ground shoulder first. Fire blazed at the amputation site. He groaned and grasped at the roots, struggling for purchase.

When he looked up, the shadows blurred into silhouettes. The roaring in his skull droned like lightsabers. The man dropped to his shoulder, heedless of the pain, and rolled onto his back. He stared up at the canopy.

What would he say?

_ Dezi, this was a mistake, you were wrong to bring me here, I can’t do this. _

_ I can’t do this. _

_ I can’t-- _

He dug in his pocket for a worry stone. His fist closed around one and he brought it to his face, forcing his eyes to take in the pink crystal. A simple thing. Smooth. An indent for a thumb. It shook violently in his grasp. He stared into the pale depths… and his gut lurched—

Crystals glitter in the dark. A dazzling array of clusters send coruscating specks of light across the yawning ceilings.

_ I can’t. _

Sieg took a deep, shuddering breath and let his hand fall to his side. He took in big gulps of jungle air. The earthy scents filled his lungs. Soon the canopy above blurred behind a veil of tears. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall, hot and full of shame.

_ I tried. _

The darkness behind his eyelids turns into a cavern. Sieg can see his breath, a white cloud billowing at his nostrils. He trudges up ancient steps, letting his axe fall like a staff with each step.  _ Clang. Clang. Clang. _ The metallic strikes bounce off the many crystals spiraling into the black abyss over his head.

_ Not again. _

_ I’m tired. _

_ Please not again. _

_ I’m so tired… _

Sieg reaches the top of the flight. His armored sandals land on a pressure plate and the floor before him opens. A giant crystal prism slowly raises, twisting up until it looms far above his head. The sheer power radiating from within almost sends him toppling backwards down the steps.

_ It’s too much. _

Scorching light, blistering light--

_ All too much. _

He can’t shut his eyes. He can’t raise a hand to shield his face. No matter where he looks, the blinding lights engulf his vision. Too much, too much,  _ TOO MUCH _ . He isn’t real. This isn’t real. Forced to his knees, he draws breath and roars. The Force swells within his chest. A shock wave leaps from his jaws and shakes the caverns like thunder.

Crystal shatters, millions of tiny pieces scream in his ears—

Jungle.

Sieg touched the fresh scrape on his face and looked up at his trembling hand. His fingertips were smeared with black blood.

_ Is it real? _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dezi Vox, Teroch Kal

Dezi swore, clasping her hands at the back of her neck. “You’re not. You are not. There’s no way I can accept--”

“Dezinya.”

She shook her head and turned away, pacing down the length of the dim cargo hold. Even in low light, there was no mistaking the glint off the footlocker’s contents: an entire set of inky black Mandalorian armor.

“Dezinya--”

“Don’t Dezinya me, Teroch.”

“It’s in poor taste to turn down a gift. More so when it holds great value.”

She leaned against the wall, folding her arms. “You know I hate debts. This armor costs more than my starship, my speeder, and just about everything else I owe combined!” She turned on him, gesturing at the locker. “I can’t pay off something like this.”

“You’re not indebted when something’s freely given. A child of Mandalore would never attach invisible strings… even to a spider.”

Dezi rubbed her eyes. Stars above, she hated that voice--so calm, so pleasant, so sensible. So Imperial, almost, his polished dialect mimicking that of his employers. Teroch Kal’s mild manners belied his ruthless nature all too well. She loathed how the quietly dangerous words drove her crazy in more ways than one.

“... so I’m a spider now,” she muttered. She turned back to the box and knelt beside it, handling a gauntlet with care. “Who was the previous owner?”

Teroch sat down and arranged the armor on the floor. He said nothing. Dezi knew to wait. The man required his patience to be reciprocated. Eventually he stopped his fiddling, sealed the crate, and sat down on the lid. “Take off your jacket and belt--leave the boots. The bodysuit won’t fit you. You’ll have to get your own.”

Dezi nodded, taking off her extra layers. He stood with the flak vest; she raised her arms and he slipped it on.

“My Clan saved each other’s lives enough that no one kept count, but if anyone was in the lead, it was them. Incredible marksman. They were  _ mandokarla  _ to the end.” Teroch fastened the flak vest up the back. “Good. They were the same size as you.”

“Stars, Kal. It’s like the armor was made for me.”

“You’re a little shorter. Thankfully you have a strong physique to fill it out.” He picked up the lower pieces and crouched at her feet. “This is the  _ cetar’bure _ . The  _ tadun’bure _ . The  _ motun’bure _ .” He strapped on the boot plates, shin plates, and thigh plates as he narrated. “The  _ bes’lovike _ .” He added the knees. “The  _ ven’cabur _ .” The codpiece.

“Oh, I know this one,” Dezi interjected, seeing Teroch reach for the gauntlets. “Those are  _ kom’rk _ s.”

Teroch raised a brow.

“ _ Kom’rke _ .”

“Good. Now for the flak vest.These are the  _ bes’marbure _ , the  _ hal’cabure _ , the  _ ghet’bur _ , the  _ shar’tas _ , and the  _ nor’cabur _ .” He named each piece as he pressed them against her chest, snapping them into place. “You can put the  _ buc’ye _ on later. I’ve already calibrated it.”

Dezi glanced down at her chest and, like on the floor, there was a piece missing in the center: the little diamond. Her lips parted to question its absence, but Teroch held up a finger and reached into his belt pouch. Metal clinked together and he withdrew a fistful of diamonds. He rummaged through them and selected a black one.

“The  _ ka’rta beskar _ ,” he said. “Iron heart.”

Dezi stared past the missing bit to the collection in his hand. Each heart represented a lost life--a life he’d cared about. A chill went down her spine.

“Well? Go on.”

She took a deep breath and took the diamond. She knew how to say thank you in Mando’a--it was a simple phrase--but she concentrated on the enunciation before she gave it voice. “ _ Vor’entye _ .”

Teroch closed a hand around hers and brought it to her chest. He leaned in close… then broke free of her gaze and straightened up, nodded twice, and turned away. “You don’t need to know their story, Casarad.” Nightflower--her name in Mando’a. “Make your own.” He stepped out of the cargo hold and his footsteps faded towards the gangway.

Dezi released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and uncurled her fist. A glinting heart laid bare in her palm. She sank to the floor and pressed it to her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegrain Vox
> 
> Flashback to Siegrain's inquisitor days.

One by one they fell. One by one by one. Sometimes in twos or fives or tens. The heavens split open and Siegrain Vox raised his axe to the sky; his deafening Force roar rivalled the thunder.

Each spark of life throughout the rebel base grew cold.

And time…

...stood…

still.

Siegrain set his gaze on the nearest target. He swung his axe--with a sickening crunch and spurt of gore, that offensive flicker of sentience vanished from existence. With mechanical ease he dispatched cowering victims. One by one. One by one by one.

A plasma bolt struck his armor. He whirled on the source. The paralyzing effect of his shout had worn off, leaving rebels scrambling for cover. He deflected another barrage with the flat of his blade and lifted his polearm to the storm clouds above. A pillar of lighting jumped from sky to ground, smiting the group. Siegrain blinked away the afterimage.

Finally, silence. No more screams. No more anguish. No more…

…fear.

Siegrain bared his teeth against the fleeing pinprick of terror needling its way into his mind. Faint. So faint he could, perhaps, forgive it--

_ “All it takes is a spark.” _

He stalked after the stragglers. The rainwater on his body ran pink with the blood of hornless aliens. He splashed through muddy puddles without hesitation, trailblazing a direct path to his prey with his humming blade.

Their panic spiked. Lights burst in his head, triggering a throbbing ache behind his eyes. Siegrain snarled and swiped a free hand, slamming the first target against a tree trunk. Again he forged a path and again the predator struck without mercy. Again. Again. He’d tear apart the entire forest if he had to--

Only one tiny pinprick remained.

_ “All it takes, my dear…” _

He swept aside a curtain of ivy to find the rebel cowering at the roots of a tree, holding their ankle.

“... _ is a single spark.” _

_ Siegrain drops to his knees before them. They draws his aching head into their lap, and he no longer feels like the galaxy threatens to cleave his psyche in two. Tears fall unbidden. When claws scrape at their trails, bile rises in his throat, but the cloaked inquisitor’s oppressive presence silences his protests before he can give them voice. _

The rebel staggered to their feet, tripped, fell to their knees.

_ Claws lock him in place. Siegrain gives up. He knows he’s failed. He knows what’s to come-- _

Siegrain roared away the intrusive images and the rebel froze. Time froze. Or at least, it seemed to freeze, but then it’s in a flux again. But then the claws prickled at his--

_ Shhk _ .

A flick of the wrist parts the rebel’s head from their shoulders.

_ Thud _ .

The pressure lifted.

Silence.

Siegrain reached for his wrist com, but he saw the glint of his master’s eyes and felt the tips of his claws and stayed his hand. The rain poured down from the trees. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the drops trickle down his face and wash away the alien blood. He could breathe easy now. At least for the moment.

Finally, some goddamn peace and quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zkaltrops, Dezi Vox
> 
> Zkaltrops picks up supplies from House A'kadii.

A cool wind swept across Zkaltrop’s face. He shut his eyes and breathed in the many scents the air carried: tilled soil, grass, spices, incense. He stepped down onto the  _ Sunder's  _ gangway and winced at the twinge around his prosthetic leg.

His body still protested against daily living. The many bites, bruises, and claw marks hidden under his flightsuit didn’t help. He wasn't sure he’d ever live without chronic pain again.

Some of that was his own doing now.

He deserved it.

With another deep, stabilizing breath, he leaned against the airlock door frame. The southern tower marked the far end of Bral Prudii. Sprawling farm plots rested beneath a cloudless sky. Grainary rippled in the breeze. Metal walls meandered far into the distance, rising and falling through the hills. A domed fortress overlooked the lake.

Bral Prudii, he knew, meant Fort’s Shadow. Once the sun sank lower he’d see the name in practice. For now it hung too high.

Zkaltrops locked up the  _ Sunder _ and headed down to the lift. The metal platform descended and brought him down to ground level. Ahead, the dirt path beneath his boots offered two options: the giant domed fortress or the marketplace.

He set off down the latter.

Reeds rustled at the lake’s shore. Zabraki children splashed each other in the shallows. Metal rang against metal as armored Mandalorians contested for a limmie ball in soft sands, shouts echoing across the fields.

Zkalt fixed his eyes ahead.

The murmur of the marketplace grew louder. Spices drowned out the floral scents of wildflowers clustering along the path. Though they were similar, traditional Mandalorian seasonings carried a kick distinct from Devaronian cuisine. A few years ago Dad had brought him--

A chill ran down his spine. For a moment the cool wind felt brutally cold, and he swallowed back a wave of nausea.

One foot in front of the other.

Another.

And another.

Attaboy.

The chatter engulfed him as he encroached on the city. It looked more like a colorful, lively village than a true city--mud and wood structures mingled among ivy-covered metal and street murals. In typical Mandalorian fashion he spotted a wide variety of species; almost all helmets were custom-built for horns, lekku, tentacles, montrals, and more. Dathomiri zabraki dominated while countless others clanked about in their painted armor. Red linen wraps added flavor to many kits while also covering some of the polycerates head to toe.

Zkaltrops navigated the populated area with care, eyes darting between market stalls. Dried herbs, fresh produce, hunting supplies, weaponry, survival gear, art, and even useless products like diverse arrays of multicultural artwork and tchotchkes. Snatches of Mando’a and Basic rose above the din.

“You take good care of those horns! How about trying--”

“Fresh from the Kelita Valley--”

“--in need of a new home! Well-trained!”

“Hey captain, you need repairs?”

The beating heart of the resistance: a cultural melting pot. Zkaltrops fought for this. Inevitably, he’d die for this.

He paused in front of a stall as his stomach twisted--only minutes ago he’d felt sick, but now that empty pit felt like hunger. Thankfully the  _ Sunder _ was stocked up on rations. Still his gaze lingered on the many bowls of ingredients, the skewered meats, the hanging racks of fruits and vegetables. Some of them he failed to recognize.

He didn’t need to buy anything.

But he could...

Against his better judgement, Zkaltrops exchanged credits for food. The vendor rolled up a scratch-made wrap filled with vivid spices that stained the rice, meats, and vegetables a red-orange. He headed back the way he’d came and made it back to the Southern Tower with his purchase; there he sat on the gangway to eat and watch the ruffled lake.

By the time he finished, his sinuses tingled and his nose threatened to run. He sniffled and took long draughts of water from a canteen.

… movement. Zkalt spotted a figure down below cutting across the grass with repulsor-lifted crates. They reached the tower and vanished beneath it. Metal rasped and gears hummed. The lift descended. Zkaltrops stood and folded his arms behind his back, looking on as a Mandalorian rose to his level.

Only, this wasn’t no mando--it was the Angels informant, Vox. The one who’d brought in an ex-Inquisitor.

“There he is!” Vox cried. “The captain himself! Thank the stars I convinced Vonnie to let you back in the pilot’s seat. Looks like you’re only grounded from flying combat missions, huh?”

“Ain’t no prisoner,” Zkalt muttered. “I fly where I please.”

“Fair enough. Kept you waiting long?”

“I landed early.”

Vox took off her helmet and shook her locs free. “Wow. Did you see Bral Prudii on your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Not a fan of tours?”

“Get to the point.”

“A’ight. I want to know if you like it here.”

Her eyes searched his face. Zkaltrops never appreciated the purpose behind Vox’s every move. He trusted his features to remain expressionless as he considered the question. What was she fishing for? If he said yes… if he said no… “I don’t mind it much.”

Vox grinned. “Hell yeah. I’d hate to send you somewhere you ‘minded much’.”

“Don’t got much of a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice. You know I’d never blackmail you, cuz.” Dezi frowned and reached for his collar. “These didn’t heal yet?”

Zkaltrops locked his metal hand around her wrist. The bites across his body hadn’t hurt terribly on his excursion, but now they all seemed to sting as if Dezi could see through his clothes. The collar was high enough—she wanted an excuse to peek. Her attention brought him back to those painful nights trying to shower or bathe, water like fire on his skin. How he’d cried out, jerked back, forgetting how it’d felt when Bion cleaned his wounds from the crash.

Flames at his face.

Flesh ripped off his calf like a citrus peel.

Fingers like gravel under the medscanner.

He didn’t notice his hand curling into a tight vise until Dezi grimaced and tugged. He let go.

“I’m sorry, Zkaltrops. I’m worried.”

_ Sure _ .

“Honestly? I’m scared.”

_ Suuure _ .

“Do you really like it here?”

“The view was nice ‘til you stepped in front of me, darlin’,” Zkalt drawled, letting his eyes wander. He couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore. So many faces filled with false concern. So many forced smiles and questioning tones. I’m so sorrys and do you need anythings and more useless, utterly useless words. He wished they’d choke on them.

Vox slowly, purposefully moved aside.

The lake still glimmered beneath the sun. The fields still swayed. The stronghold still stood tall and proud in the countryside.

“If this works out, you’ll make monthly runs. I’ll randomize the times and dates to minimize your chances of interception. Supposedly the Imps have eyes here. The clan isn’t worried, being a heavily defended bastion of free Mandalore and all, but still. Feel free to explore, just be careful, yeah?”

“I ain’t the one bringin’ a sentient death machine into Central.”

“Look...” Vox sighed. “Here’s your shipment. May it be the first of many. Let me help y--hhhoookay.” 

Zkaltrops had already taken the repulsorlift himself. “I ain't fragile, Vox.” He hauled it up the gangway, heedless of how he felt. He had no right to complain and, loathe as he was to admit it, transporting cargo appealed to him.

“See you later, Zkalt. Thanks again. And if you need anything—“

He shut the airlock door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orijaa Sornell before he was Orijaa Sornell.

The fiend’s jaws snapped around Bloodling’s arm and the crowd roared. The thunder of thousands drowned out his scream as the beast shook him with its teeth. He slammed his free fist into its snout and it flung him across the sand. He hit shoulder first and rolled, coughing as sand sprayed into the air.

He scrambled to his knees, clutching his shoulder. His hand found a jagged fang snapped off in the flesh. While warm blood ran from the puncture, a blistering fire shot through his veins. It burned its way down his arm and across his chest.

He groaned, but just once before he heard heavy footfalls and dove. The beast barreled past where he’d knelt seconds prior. It spun around now, tall and armored by chitin and spikes, armed with fangs and spurs. Bloodling’s weapons had broken beneath its weight at the beginning of the encounter.

But Bloodling was a weapon.

And though his body could break, his mind wouldn’t. They’d tried. They’d failed.

He stood to meet the beast head on. Teeth clenched, he yanked the fang from his shoulder and jumped. He grabbed hold of the bristly hairs on the beast’s flank. He yelled his pain as he hauled himself onto the charging thing and held on tight. Tears blinded him and his head spun from the jarring shakes and bucks of the creature beneath him.

It rolled. He jumped before he was crushed, claws slicing his leg. He still landed by the beast’s head and stabbed the fang down. Teeth gnashed at him before it recoiled, yelping and shrieking at the loss of an eye.

Bloodling rolled clear of the thrashes and stumbled, falling into the hard-packed dirt. The dizziness hadn’t abated, and no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t see. The fire still burned away like a fever, consuming his entire body now.

He mumbled a curse and struggled to his feet again. The world spun. The arena lurched beneath his boots. His heart raced and refused to slow.

Boiling hot. But not as hot as a glowing brand.

Bloodling gripped the fang hard and approached the recovering beast. It lashed out and he danced away from the claws and spurs, numb as he felt. He darted in for a gash. Another one. Another one. The paw slammed him down again. Tunnel vision took over. His view of chitin and hair and blood narrowed. New wounds stung. The bite screamed.

The fang went down in the fiend’s throat. The trumpeting screech sounded far away. Again. Again. The screech cut off in the middle of a high note.

Bloodling braced his failing body on the corpse and forced himself upright. He thrust the fang into the air. Now the crowd roared for him, only for him. As blood, sweat, and tears dripped down his skin and venom coursed through his body, he let out a roar of his own.

In the crowd, a Mandalorian watched on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zkaltrops, Dorian Fehn (not mine)

Dorian’s breaths fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern beneath the side of Zkaltrops’ head. He couldn’t remember falling asleep—and certainly not like this. The abandoned diagram on the table, the parts that had failed to make a whole. A piece was missing. Blasted thing.

His own breathing was shaky, chest tight, and he wasn’t sure why until his mind lurched like a crashland.

Just ignore it.

Throbbing pain shot through Zkaltrops’ prosthetic.

Ignore it.

He pressed his face into Dorian’s chest and breathed in. He preferred a boyfriend to a pillow. He’d spent months asking himself, did friends do this? Did friends stay awake fiddling with an uncooperative lightspeed thruster and then lie together on a couch until they fell asleep? Maybe they did. But now he didn’t have to wonder what they were.

Zkalt still didn’t know what had woken him. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, though, no matter how cozy his environs. The false pain throbbed in his leg. He felt like he was falling, and—

A hand rested on his back. The pattern of inhales and exhales was broken, but a new one traced circles between his shoulder blades.

Zkaltrops shut his eyes and snuggled closer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zkaltrops

Zkaltrops rapped his nail against the side of his datapad. Blank screen.   
  
I feel...   
  
He backspaced.   
  
Handwrite it. He reached for flimsi and a pen. I feel... another pause. He fidgeted. He tapped the pen against the table. Instead of words, he copied a diagram off his wall in scritchy ink lines.   
  
That's not what Khoré meant by journaling his feelings.    
  
It was childish.   
  
Trivial.   
  
And worst of all, it was counter productive. He wanted to get better... whatever better meant. Why cause more pain? Why not move past it?   
  
He crumpled up the paper and tossed it. Soon he had a collection of flimsi sheets at his feet. He kicked them aside and plugged in his guitar.   
  
Which song...   
  
Now this was less cumbersome than "emotional vulnerability". Less of a burden and more of a joy. Music was math. Before he knew it he'd seized a ballad from his mind and launched into the patterns. Instead of awkward, halting and stumbling like a newborn animal, he danced between fingerings with deft motions.   
  
Zkaltrops could still see the crumpled paper in his peripheral. If he didn't bring something to Khoré in fifteen minutes he'd waste both of their time.   
  
He broke from the chords in his head and ripped an erratic pattern from the strings.   
  
Five minutes.   
  
Zkaltrops put his guitar in its case. With freed hands he opened a compact mirror and checked his makeup with a critical eye. The new setting spray was a godsend.   
  
Four minutes.    
  
Okay.   
  
He'd do it his way.   
  
Zkalt tossed the crumpled flimsi into the case, snapped it shut, and shouldered it on his way out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaller'sai'Vengavarl, Zendu (not mine), Oni (not mine)

Jaller kicked off his boots, tossed his clothes on top of his gear, and tied back his mass of tentacles. He gave the knotted cloth an experimental tug. Satisfied, he dove under the cool water with a fusion cutter gripped in one hand. He kicked upstream to the base of the wreckage with fluid ease, smiling to himself as the fresh current swept across his gills.  
The wreckage wouldn’t budge with a piece of the undercarriage wedged deep into silt. His webbed feet sank into the mud and he cut away at the base piece, leaving glowing orange lines that hissed beneath the water and let off bubbles.  
Finally! The stuttering motor dragged the surviving pieces of hull onto the river bank with a loud squelch. He surfaced, letting the air fill his lungs again, and watched the wreckage settle.  
All this work for an ugly?  
… hell, he’d done more for less. Finders keepers, whatever it was worth.  
Jaller swam after the craft, but he hadn’t reached the bank before he heard undergrowth crunching in the distance. He submerged himself until he was up to his eyes in water, vision split between two worlds. Even a charging animal wouldn’t sound so erratic. A sentient? How anyone would survive such a crash was beyond him, much less who’d bother to return and collect the remains of an ugly so ugly it could’ve inspired the slang.  
“Zendu! Hey Zendu! I hear the river!”  
Jaller swam back to the other shore and grabbed his conc rifle. He turned just in time to see neon blue and pink explode from the bushes. The bizarre, colorful man charged at the shore with a snarling mouthful of tusks and a branch clutched tight in one hand.  
“THAT’S MINE! BACK OFF, FISH FRY!”  
A devaronian jumped after the man and grabbed his arms. Jaller just stared as the stranger tried to pinwheel free of his companion’s grip, spitting swears in a myriad of languages, and an incredulous grin spread across Jaller’s face. He lowered his rifle and watched the ruckus with bemusement.  
Once the man was subdued, Jaller slipped into the river. He emerged head-and-shoulders on the other side and waded into the waist-deep shallows. A shaft of sunlight fell onto his skin, warming his body as droplets of river water raced down the contours of muscle and tentacles.  
“Sorry, he made me come with him to get his weed out of the wreckage…” The devaronian’s small voice trailed off.  
Jaller tried to speak; instead he roared with laughter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Siegrain's childhood.

The sun sank faster with each passing day. Dark already? Siegrain trudged down the dirt path with his shoulders hunched, head down, breath stuck in his chest. Each footstep was too loud. Each breath.

They were waiting again in the cover of twilight. He could sense them. He refused to look. 

“Hey,  _ ockshron _ !”

The rock flew from nowhere and struck his cheek. Siegrain cried out and stumbled against a fence post, clutching the new bruise as splinters dug into his shoulder.

Three of them.

If he were just a little bit taller… stronger… if he weren't purple…he straightened up and kept walking. 

“Where you going,  _ greltok _ ?”

_ Thunk _ .

Siegrain's chest stung at the impact. He glanced around in time to see the third headed directly for his--

The rock halted midair.

Silence. The other young devaronians watched, some taking steps back. The hovering rock blurred behind a sudden veil of tears.

Just… let it go.

Just...

“Told you he wouldn't do shit.”

The rock shot across the path and smashed into the other kid's chin. A burst of rage and terror, fiery and icy, emanated from the group. Ugy, overwhelming. It was his own fire and ice too. Two extremes rushing through his veins strong enough to make the Force swell inside of him and his head ache with the pressure. When the group advanced the flames extinguished and only the chill remained. 

Siegrain jumped the fence. He hit the ground running, cutting through long grasses to the treeline ahead. Shouts and footsteps chased him. 

Faster. Faster. He started to wheeze. He couldn't. He wasn't fast enough. 

Silence. 

They'd stopped. 

Siegrain dropped to his knees and took gaps of air. When he could breathe again he untied a patterned cloth from his neck and wrapped it over his horns like a headband.

_ Greltok _ .


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***explicit***
> 
> Zkaltrops, Dorian Fehn (not mine)

Zkaltrops tightened his grip and angled his hips deeper into the thrusts. He couldn’t find the right… ah. He managed a shaky moan. But his throat was tight and his eyes welled with tears. All the same in the darkness of an unlighted 4am bedroom.

And in that darkness, Zkalt’s mind filled in the blanks. The crushed cockpit was burned into his memories as if the flames had touched his brain as well as his skin.

Shit, it was gone.

“Harder,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep that would not come.

Again the unbidden tears.

He wanted more than what Dorian would give. Damn the man for being so good to him. It was more than Zkaltrops deserved. And this? This was Zkalt at his lowest. Something to distract him. Anything. Please.

He couldn’t quite disguise a sob.

Dorian paused.

Fuck.

Zkaltrops took a shuddering breath and clutched at him as he pulled out. Gentle fingers touched his face and, finding tears there, wiped them away. He lost it then.

Too good.

The warm presence leaned away for just a moment. The light on the nightstand clicked on.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian asked.

He found he couldn’t answer. He wrapped his arms around his lover and cried into his shoulder. It was more than the flashbacks now. More than that final glimpse of Dad’s corpse crumpled into the wreckage. His skin crawled with revulsion. Nausea rose in his throat and he was struck with the urge to rip free of his damaged self, might have even tried if not for the circumstances.

“I’m sor- I …”

It sounded so pitiful. So disgustingly pitiful.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

The guilt worsened. Too good for him. Just too damn good. Zkaltrops was too weak to pull free of Dorian’s arms, though, frailty of the heart keeping him there even as he envisioned filth rubbing off all over Dorian’s own skin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glitch prepares to replace Dorian's ruined fingers.

The smell of chamomile wafted through the air. The steam had long faded, tea cold in the mug left abandoned on a countertop. Still the scent lingered.

Yet it failed to mask the presence at the doorway.

The distinctive fragrances of Zkaltrops clung to him, as did shampoo, an oddly human body odor, and traces of grease. The longer Glitch dwelled on it, the more scents came to mind, fainter and fainter still. Despite the many differences between Dorian and his partner, Glitch still caught himself thinking it was the latter.

They bustled about their lab, heavy boots thunking around the small, cluttered space. Without being told, they knew why Dorian had arrived. The faceless cybertech danced past obstacles without pause. As always, there was a method to their madness--a  _ scientific _ method, thank you very much!

“I heard you lost fingers in the crash.” Glitch flicked on a holoscreen. “I just ha-have a few quest-t-t-ions.” They cursed silently to themself, willing their voice to slow down and stabilize.

“Shoot.”

“I wrote them down.” Glitch swiped and rested their hand on the projector. The brief image granted by the electronic signals told them it was the right file. “Just a few questions! Jus-s-t five or six or… thirteen…” Seventeen, actually.

A long pause.

Glitch fiddled with a spiked bracelet. Shuffled their platform boots. Clicked their metal fingers together.

“Glitch.”

“Yeah?”

“Why in the hell would you need to know my blood type?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziora Khoré's origin story.

Ziora scrubbed their hands. Though the traces of blood were long gone, they viciously scoured away, skin breaking into an angry pink from the abuse. They splashed cold water on their face. The sudden movement only worsened their nausea and set the ‘freshers spinning around them.

They shut their eyes.

_ I’m sorry. _

But they could still see the blood. 

_ I’m sorry…  _

The beep of a dryer jolted them back into the present. They shut off the faucet and hurried through the apartment to get their clothes.

Ziora ran their fingers over the warm, dry cloth. Silly of them to think they could keep their clothes. The stains were gone, but they knew. They remembered. And detergent wouldn't fool a forensics kit. They tried to fold up the articles of clothing but their hands shook too much; they put them in the drawer beneath the machines for the time being and backed out of the laundry room in search of their comlink.

The device sat on the counter. By the time they held the comlink in their palm, the urge to call home abandoned them.

Mom and Dad would know something was wrong.

They'd ask questions.

Too many questions.

_ I’m sorry. _

Ziora choked back a sob. It’d all gone so wrong. They looked down at the comlink again, and they chose a different frequency.

When they hung up feeling sicker than before, a loud bang-bang-bang echoed through the apartment as a fist connected with the front door. The device fell from their grasp and smashed against the floor. Their feathers stood on end as a voice shouted to open up.

Police.

  
  


The holding cell swung open. Ziora resisted the urge to look up.

“Khoré? You're free to leave.”

They hesitated, waiting for a punchline that never arrived. A flash of irritation crossed the officer’s features. After another moment of doubt, Ziora rose to their feet. “May I ask what’s going on?”

“Apparently there was a mistake.”

A mistake…

Oh.

That kind of mistake.

The call had worked. 

With an air of impatience, the officer led Ziora back outside. Their feathers fluffed against the night air and each footstep said guilty, guilty, guilty. Like boots on tile. Like a door slamming shut. Like a sentient being’s final scuffle. Like a body hitting the floor. Their shoulders hunched, expecting to be called back any second.

Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty. 

Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

How would he react knowing his husband was dead? His terrible no good husband who did unspeakable things to him… and yet still had a place in his heart?

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Ziora stopped at the curb.

As they surveyed the street, they recognized a man leaning their elbow on a speeder door. They circled around the speeder and slid into the passenger side.

The green tattooed face was most certainly his--the lackey that lurked at the brothel, standing in the shadow of one of Ziora’s high profile clientele. The one paying off their loans. The mirialan smiled, revved the engines, and set off to a side street. When the speeder came to a stop again he said, “Hey there, Zi.”

Ziora couldn’t bring himself to speak. They looked at the dashboard.

“That’s all you’ve got? Silence? After we got you out of a cell and back on the streets? You called us, you know.  _ You _ called  _ us _ .” The man shook his head. After another pause, he cupped Ziora’s chin and forced them to look at him. “Don’t worry. A little birdie told me it was self-defense. Everyone knows that. The judge, the jury, the city--of course the good doctor was only protecting herself from harm.”

Ziora’s mouth went dry. They winced as the man dug his fingers into their skin.

“Say it. It was self-defense.”

“It… but I--”

“Say it.” His grip tightened.

Ziora didn’t know. They didn’t know the truth. They barely knew what had happened and if it was self-defense or not was between themself and the stars. They--

The man struck him. White hot flared in Ziora’s face once, twice, three times--they cried out at each hit and hid behind their hands until they realized the throbbing pain wouldn’t recede. They yelped as the man seized their face again, this time turning it towards the side mirror. Red marks that would bruise. A gash on their cheek.

It hurt it hurt it hurt--

“It was self-defense,” he said smugly, starting the engines again. The stinging wounds and daze made his voice sound far away. “I’ll take you to the tram station. You’ll go home--home to your family. Cry in front of them. Put on a show. I know you're good at those.” He winked. “When this clears up, I’ll be back. Boss wants a word. Things are gonna be a little different now.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orijaa Sornell, Domi Sabress

They'd asked for weeks now. Pleading, flattering, bribing. But Orijaa looked down on Domi and saw someone too beneath him to teach. He'd wipe the floor with them. Why bother?

Why indeed.

He stood motionless, watching Domi creep forward. He'd agreed to spar just this once. Shut them up. There was no need to take precautions. This A'kadii had some training, but no spine to back it up. No muscle to follow through.

This wouldn't go well--for them.

Domi struck, hesitance giving Orijaa more than enough time to dance around them. Not a single blow landed. He tripped them for good measure. Thunk. Sprawled on the ground in a tangle of skinny limbs. 

“So this is an A'kadii warrior?”

Domi looked up, teeth gritted.

“Seriously?” Orijaa punctuated his words with vicious kicks. “This is all they have to offer Clan Sornell?”

Domi rolled out of reach, grimacing, and stalked away.

“ _ K'olar _ ,” Orijaa snapped. He followed at their heels. “Fight me, A'kadii. For real this time--”

He caught the elbow strike before it collided with his chin and shoved them. They whirled around and tried anew.

“Slow.” Orijaa hit back. “Sloppy.” He parried. “Weak!” He hit again--

A flash of purple and his body spasmed, ripping a cry from his throat. A boot crashed into his ab plate and sent him staggering. Every muscle screamed out at the searing, familiar pain. 

The mando advanced--

Orijaa's crushgaunt smashed into Domi's face. Snap. A kick that mirrored theirs sent them to the floor with a shriek.

Domi covered their face, taking shallow, gasping breaths.

And the hunter's boot stepped down on their throat. They coughed and wheezed as his heel slowly crushed their windpipe, grinding down, and grasped at his ankle. They tapped his shin twice with all their strength.

“You yield?”

They managed another tap, choking beneath the heel.

He released them.

Domi heaved in air, clutching their side. They curled into fetal position in a futile attempt to hide their sobs.

Orijaa sighed and knelt down. “Let's see the damage,  _ vod'ika _ .”

No response. They fell perfectly still and silent.

Another sigh.

Orijaa pushed their limp body face up.

He drew a sharp breath when he realized their nose was straight and their lip was intact. “ _ Wayii… _ ” The fur at his spine prickled. The only sign of their injuries was the residual blood stains.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: ... implied autoerotica?

Star charts and routes and deadlines buzzed in Zkaltrops’s head like jungle gnats. He took a deep breath of fragrant steam and, as he exhaled, banished his two-week schedule from his thoughts. Anxieties threatened to crowd in but he focused on the rivets of hot water pouring down his back instead. The white noise of the hissing sanisteam consumed him.

After years of painful, hectic Koh’hibrils, hauling freight was…a relief. A quiet moment he so desperately needed.

Steam heated his face.

As did shame.

Zkalt reached for a new soap and took in the warm, spiced scent before he lathered his skin one-handed. He set it aside and hesitated. His body was littered with mistakes and misery. The scars, the stump of his right arm, the metal leg holding him up alongside flesh and bone. Each mark and missing piece a shrine to humiliation, a monument to regret. 

Was he looked upon with pity or with scorn? Certainly not reverence. There was nothing to love or to respect in his corporeal form. What was he, then? A mausoleum?

No, nothing so grand.

He tilted his head down beneath the falling water.

A tongue ran over dulled teeth. A fingernail followed the deep scar at his lip and traced the rims of his stretched ears. He skated down the burns to the scratches over his collarbone. In spite of the loathing that turned his stomach he forced himself to slow down and take in every little mark. Go back. Feel it again.

When he’d finally accepted what laid beneath his hands he moved farther down, pausing to rub against the metal barbels in his chest. A soft exhale left him. For a moment he lost track of time leaning against the stall and playing with the little bits of jewelry; when he remembered his purpose he followed his stomach and paused at the little scars here and there.

Jagged scar tissue on his thighs. Those took some repeating, back and forth. When he moved past the claw marks he bumped into a metal knee.

Crushed beneath the console.

Agony.

Struggling for freedom.

Zkalt wrapped his hand around the metal and looked down at the water dripping down the gold and brown surfaces. It was there. It was fine. He remained bent over until his back protested. He straightened up and let his hand follow the contours of his body as a whole.

A whole.

He drew in a sharp breath as he ran his fingers down his sensitive ridges. He sank down to the bottom of the sanisteam and explored himself deeper with gentle touches.

It was Koh’hibril, and  _ this  _ was his home.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Zkaltrops's childhood.

It wasn’t a glorious bird of prey so much as a drab beast of burden, but it was home, and Teyzkalt was proud. He backed away from the landing gears and smiled up at the newly repaired and refueled  _ Taka-Tey _ , fists planted firmly on his hips. He was no gilded sun himself. But really, who needed fancy?

Sturdy. Reliable. That’s what counted most.

Zkaltrops emerged at the top of the gangway. A warmer smile lit Teyzkalt’s face. “There’s my little sun!” he called. Not so little anymore. He grew bigger with each passing day. His horns were fully grown now, too, polished and sharpened like a man’s.

Hyperspace felt like forever, and yet… where had the time gone?

He grinned and knelt down as Zkaltrops ran to his outstretched arms, and he hoisted the kid onto his shoulders. “Where to, kid?”

“We don’t have another job?”

“Well, eventually! I’m fixin’ to bring us down the Corellian Run again in a couple weeks. But right now our schedule’s free as a taka-tey.” Teyzkalt made his way up the gangway, crouching down so Zkaltrops would clear the door frame. “I reckon we should take some time to ourselves, just you and me. See the sights. Go somewhere we’ve never gone.” He navigated the corridor of their home as he spoke. Little hands held tight to his horns as he cleared the door to the cockpit.

The starmap was already open. He chuckled as he realized Zkaltrops had viewed the navicomp in his brief absence. His son could run the ship just as well as he could, and soon, likely better. Growing up on a starship had that effect.

Teyzkalt smiled to himself as he remembered words once spoken to a good friend:  _ I’m gonna show my kid the galaxy _ . He’d never know if he’d made the right decision, but the thrill of those words told him right or wrong, it was still a pretty damn good one. As his thoughts meandered, he let Zkaltrops down. The boy gazed up at the holographic planets with a longing the devaronian people knew all too well.

“Where do you want to go, sunbeam?”

Zkaltrops turned to him with a sparkle in his determined eyes. The look that made Teyzkalt’s heart soar on wings of gold.

“Everywhere.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domi, recovering from surgery, finds humor in being stabbed in the heart.

Listless. Eyelids heavy. Domi’s deft fingers stumbled rather than danced across the screen, deleting two sentences for every one written. One ahead, two back. Nothing lasted, nothing mattered. One ahead, two back. So why, then, was Domi stuck in this skeleton of sentience repeating the patterns of the past? One ahead, two back.

Blank page.

They leaned back against Siegrain’s shoulder. The click of beads in his hands was a soothing background noise that faded the deeper they fell into their thoughts. Since they’d woken up in the medbay a couple weeks ago, Domi had failed to write a single salvageable word. Why had they woken up? Why couldn’t they have ceased to exist at the pinnacle of their glory--

“Hey.”

Their eyes fell to their hand.

Blank page. Blank skin. On Mandalore they had no iron skin. On Dathomir they had no ink. On Devaron they had no context, no connections to this culture.

Domi touched the fresh scar beside their sternum. A heart pounded beneath the surface. Bion had done magnificent work. Not only had he saved their skewered heart, but he’d left only a neat scar behind. Hours and hours and hours of work… for what?

_ What a waste. _

That final moment… closing their hand around the hilt protruding from their body… if they could have taken the time to think about it, what would they have said? What would their final words be?

“Domi?”

Their gaze snapped up. A jolt shot down their spine as they met pink eyes and a furrowed, jeweled brow. The world lurched as they remembered through some distant lens where they were--their new bedroom.

The warm body at their back shifted. Domi startled and sat up, wincing at the dull pain in their chest. Siegrain held them steady.

“You need a break.”

“I know,” Domi muttered. “I just didn’t expect to live to see so many deadlines sneak up on me.” They clicked off their datapad. “I should sleep.” More like wallow in self-pity until they exhausted themself into a fitful slumber.

“Are you sure?”

He was worried. They knew that. He saw himself in their condition, projecting his old pain and hopelessness onto them. How he'd laid there with stitches in his gut. How Domi had regaled him with stories and culture.

But Domi had enough worry of their own.

They didn't need his. And he sure didn't need theirs.

Siegrain sighed, gave them a brief hug, and got up from the bed with his jewelry kit. “ _Jate ca, vod'ika._ _Ni haa'taylir gar nakar'tuur_.”

“ _ Haa'taylir _ is the infinitive,” Domi muttered, setting their datapad aside. As their fingers released the device they thought of all those dates from the publisher and the studio and…

A sudden smile twisted their lips. They glanced up to the closing door with words burning at their tongue. The door shut before they managed even the first syllable. They stared at the metal panels for some time.

It wasn't funny.

It absolutely wasn't funny.

... they laughed until shocks of pain ran through their chest. They laughed with a pillow hugged tight against their sternum. They laughed as they laid against the warm spot Siegrain left behind and let exhaustion close their eyes.

Deadlines.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zkaltrops, Dorian Fehn (not mine), Ziora Khoré 
> 
> CW: PTSD, gore

Zkaltrops slammed down the yoke. The  _ Sunder  _ missed the  _ Lady Lucy _ by a breath and only a tight spin to the right saved his vessel from careening into the  _ Star Drop _ . As the squadron’s formation fell to pieces a hail of lasers drove a wedge through their numbers.

He hissed an oath, catching a glimpse of Wixitan’s modified TIE crumpled and smoking on the ground. He tried to dive behind the  _ Lady Lucy _ and take wingman position, but a missile sent him into a frenzied corkscrew and parted him from the rest of the Gargoyles.

Their momentum was gone.

The radar lit up with an angry swarm of red, filling the gap between Zkaltrops’s position and his leader’s like a tide. Hostiles swamped the squadron, each ship a little island in a flood.

And with each craft busy, Abaddon took their first hit from the bombers.

The chaos beneath blurred as Zkaltrops dodged and juked his way free of a TIE squadron. The eyeballs lit up one by one, but the  _ Sunder _ took hits of its own. Plasma melted their hull. A turret went offline. 

The voices of the squadmates were silenced.

“Shields.” He throttled power from the guns Dorian manned with deadly accuracy, and no sooner had his co-pilot raised port shields did a burst of lasers pepper their side. The moment free from evasive maneuvers let Zkalt thread the needle through the Imp ships and burst into a breath of fresh air. He spiralled up.

A clear sky, dark with stars…

Zkaltrops dove back in. In the span of seconds he saved Zendu’s headhunter. Taks intercepted a missile headed for their starboard. Zkalt zigzagged through the chaos again with expert turns even as another hit sent shudders through their hull. Static energy prickled the air as the ship’s power flickered.

Now the cockpit glowed red from the combined forces of the radar and the diagnostic panel. Dorian unstrapped his crash webbing and reached beneath the console. A hit penetrated their weakening shields. A shock ran across the panel, jolting Zkalt through his glove; Dorian recoiled and swore profusely, shaking his hand.

“Dorian?” Zkaltrops grimaced, wrestling for control of the craft.

“Stupid  _ fucking _ Imps--”

The shields died. A barrage hit them starboard. Zkaltrops steered the spiralling craft until both engines gave out. The cockpit flushed with red lights over every system. No. No. Not again. The ship did a nose dive. No! Zkaltrops grabbed Dorian’s hand--

The  _ Sunder _ crashed into the earth.

Waves of pain wracked Zkaltrops’s body. He screamed at the searing in his leg and wrenched back, trapped by a crushing weight and the stinging restraints across his body. He thrashed against them but it only worsened the horrible jolts in his hand, his leg. Alone. All alone.

Dad’s corpse.

The terrible vision of that mangled body, bloodied and burned and limp as a mutated doll, brought on another wave. He shrieked again, writhing against the straps even though it hurt. His crash webbing unbuckled and Dorian gripped his shoulders--

… Dorian?

His name. He heard his name.

“--hurt?”

Zkaltrops latched onto him. Alive! Dorian was alive! He refused to let go… and it was a damn good thing he held on for dear life. His metal leg gave out as soon as Dorian helped him up. He muffled a cry with his fist.

The persistent burning in his leg… his prosthetic leg… it wasn’t real.

And yet it  _ was _ .

With his weight leaned against his partner, he managed to limp at a slow, heavy pace. Tilting halls passed by. The interior seemed intact, but imaginary flames still crackled in Zkaltrops’s ears. Once they made it down the crumpled gangway, he made the mistake of looking back.

Through the haze, the ruins of the  _ Sunder _ much resembled the fallen  _ Taka-Tey _ .

The sight of the medbay jolted Zkaltrops back into the present. He could hardly remember the exodus back to Angel Central, but now their medical center was overflowing with casualties. He clung trembling to Dorian. He struggled to discern snippets of the disastrous battle from his memories of his first crash--sometimes his brain tricked himself into believing Dorian was dead.

He held onto his arm tight.

Right here. He was right here.

They sat down in the hall, being a low priority in triage. Zkaltrops curled up in Dorian’s arms. Finally he could shut down. No more limping on a leg stuck in the past, no more gripping with a hand that refused to unclench without pain. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until Dorian rubbed his back and held him closer. He gasped for air, but it wasn’t enough for his racing heart.

It wouldn’t stop hurting.

“Zkaltrops?”

He jumped and raised his head, searching for the source of the soft voice. He startled again when he met a bright gaze at his eye-level. Dr. Khoré knelt before them.

“Does it hurt?”

Zkalt wiped his eyes. Dark stains came off on his sleeve. He only managed a nod--he couldn’t speak, could only gasp.

“Deep breaths, captain,” they said gently. The words were barely audible above the din, but it was for the best; any louder and it would have overwhelmed him. “In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”

After many repetitions, Zkaltrops relaxed against Dorian’s side. He still shook and a deep ache still ran through his body, but it was nothing in comparison to the agonizing hour he’d endured. “What happened?” he rasped. He knew. He knew what had happened. Wixitan had destroyed their formation and went spinning off--

“The Imperials routed our attack, but we didn’t suffer any losses in the field. Even pilots who crashed were recovered--like you.” Dr. Khoré shifted closer. “It’ll be okay. We’re all okay.” They reached out and, once Zkalt assented with a nod, took his hand. They pried the metal fingers apart and intertwined theirs in between his. The tension there eased.

“It’ll be okay,” they murmured, though a heavy shadow fell upon them. “It’s almost time to take your medication.”

Zkaltrops’s chest seized. “It… was on…”

“It’s okay. I have your refill in my office. I’ll get it for you.” Ziora glanced at Dorian, knitting their brows. His eyes fell on the man’s hand, now stowed in a jacket pocket. “Show me.” Though still quiet, their tone shifted to a command rather than a request.

Dorian eyed them for a moment. He glanced at Zkaltrops with a softer expression--maybe concern--before setting his gaze on Ziora again. When it looked like he wouldn’t listen, he withdrew blackened fingers. His jaw clenched as Ziora examined them, but his face remained blank.

“Dorian…” Zkaltrops murmured. His gut twisted at the mutilated digits.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” Dorian held him again, pressing his lips to his forehead. In the midst of the chaos, the words felt empty… but the embrace felt safe. The soft clicks of Ziora’s feet faded down the busy corridor and Zkalt hid his face in Dorian’s chest.

He wouldn’t let go.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talgo Sornell and her newly adopted son.

Orijaa stumbled free from the arena’s confines. His aching hands bled through their wrappings, dark stains engulfing the linen. Shocks still ran up his arms. Each punch echoed in the swollen joints, punching again and again and again. Knuckles pulverizing flesh. Hitting bone. A metallic scent clogged his nostrils and flooded his mouth.

He took a deep breath. He spat. 

“ _ Ij’ika _ .”

The voice jolted him from his reverie. He swung and missed. Gentle but firm hands guided him through the compound; dark rock passed them by, glinting metal winking at him in his peripheral. He stumbled over a threshold and through a doorway.

Someone sat down him down. A Mandalorian crouched before him, levelling their visor with his.  _ Tal’buir _ . They took off their helmet and kind eyes searched his own. “What happened,  _ verd’ika _ ?”

Orijaa shook his head and looked away.

_ Tal’buir  _ reached for his hands and slowly pried open clenched fists. Careful gloved fingers unravelled the stained wrappings. The motions sent fresh jolts through Orijaa’s knuckles. He gritted his teeth.

“I’ll get someone to look at these.”

“No.”

“No?”

Orijaa drew a deep breath. “You’re… you’re wrong about me. I… I’m not fit for this, I…” He shook his head again. “Are they okay?”

Tal’buir’s lips set in a grim smile. “You were striking armor,  _ ner ad _ . They’re just fine. You should be asking that question of yourself.” They examined his hands, tutting at his winces. “They’re inflamed. You might have broken bones…”

The rest of their words slipped away as Orijaa stared at a dark corner. Armor. Armor? He could still feel his fists connecting with flesh. All of this blood… was it his? He followed the long shadows of the furniture, dim and flickering in the low lights. It took Tal’buir leaning into his view to bring him back again.

“ _ Ij’ika _ , are you with me?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,  _ ad’ika _ . I should have known better than to train you in the arena. You have too many memories associated--”

“No!” Orijaa grimaced at the outburst. He glanced at the door, shoulders hunched, gaze flicking this way and that. Once he was sure nothing lurked in the shadows he set wild eyes on his parent. “There’s this thing inside of me… it’s me. It’s not the arena. It’s  _ me _ . And I can’t…” His throat constricted. “I c-can’t…”

“You can take the gladiator out of the gladiatorial pit…”

Orijaa nodded several times fast, unable to speak. The immense relief felt like another burden to carry. “It’s not the arena. It doesn’t matter where I go… I’ll… I’ll always… I can’t stay here. I can’t stay anywhere.” He looked down, slumping beneath the heavy weight. Tal’buir sat beside him and embraced him. He shuddered, holding back the floodgates, but he remembered the tears shining in the proud warrior’s eyes when they first beheld his scars and he gave in.

When, finally, he stilled, Tal’buir withdrew. “You may stay or go, but know that you belong here. Lava runs through your veins,  _ ner verd’ika _ . You need a home, and this is a home like none other.” They stood. “I’ll get you a doctor.”

Soon alone, Orijaa got up and stepped into the ‘fresher. He stared at his bloodied reflection for a long time before he splashed water on his face, hissing at the pain. Soon he hardly noticed it, lost within the wide, haunted gaze staring back at him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orijaa works with a Mandalorian foundling agency.

“Come on! You’ll want to see this.”

All the little faces looked up at Orijaa. It was their eyes that did it to him, for the man knew that look all too well. Gaunt faces. Dirty. Battered. Their shackles had chafed at their wrists and the tiny cathar’s scabs reeked.

After some insistent arm waving and gentle herding, the kids were gathered in the cockpit. Mandalore dominated the dark canvas of space and stars. “This is my home,” he said, ushering them into the co-pilot seat. He strapped the group in, though he kept the youngest in his arms. That one he held onto, navigating the ship in a straight course towards the green and blue orb.

“Hold on tight.”

The children watched with wide-eyed awe as the planet swallowed up the  _ Tal’ad _ . Flames burst across the canopy as the starfighter punched through the atmosphere. Orijaa found himself smiling at their expressions, so unlike the fear from the previous hours. It quickly faded when a glance reminded him of their condition.

He’d done his best, but his best wasn’t much.

It wasn’t long before he touched down at the rescue agency. Mandalorians were the biggest champions of adoption in the known galaxy. If their original homes couldn’t be found or didn’t want them, many a clan would be eager to care for them.

If only they could have found Orijaa…

The galaxy had done him an injustice. The least he could do was free as many slaves as he could while he himself enjoyed his freedom.

He undid the crash webbing and lead the kids down the gangway. A couple Mandalorians approached his craft--one a stranger, one a familiar face. Soon the togruta in charge stood before him.

“ _ Su cuy’gar _ .” Orijaa glanced at the furry child in his arms. His head was rested against Orijaa’s armored chest, bright eyes peeking out from behind a tabby hand. The motion brought his scabs into full view. A moment of happiness quickly soured. “Found them in shipping containers aboard an Imperial vessel. They all speak their native languages, far as I can tell. One or two might know some Basic.”

“This is your third group this month.” The Mandalorian woman smiled and shook her head, lekku swaying with the motions. “Orijaa…”

“They find me.”

“They certainly do.” She reached for the child--kitten?--and Orijaa felt a crushing sense of relief as the tiny bundle passed from his arms to hers. Much too fragile for his tastes. She murmured to the boy for a while, comforting him, then looked up with a hopeful smile. “Will you stay this time? The new tapcaf opened in the next town over.”

“Can’t.” Orijaa turned away. “Places to be.”

“Oh. Leaving so soon?”

“ _ Ret’urcye mhi _ .” Orijaa trudged back up the gangway, waving without looking back. He sat down with a dull clank of armor and plugged in new coordinates. She thought too much of him. Truth was, he hadn’t rescued all of the children from the ship. Most of them had already died. And in the end, did it even matter how many he saved?

He put his head in his hands. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Devaron’s Angels Weekly Prompt 023: Liberosis**

**characters:** Domi Sabress, Orijaa Sornell

**word count:** 597

The curious song of an energy bow warbled through the trees. Orijaa knelt behind a tangle of undergrowth, giving him a decent view of Domi circling a massive trunk. They lifted the singing bow, gripping the front apparatus and pulling back with an eye trained on their target. The arrow blasted a knot out of existence.

At the first strike, Domi dove into a frenzied rhythm, darting around and targeting the irregularities in the tree bark. The smoother their movements, the quieter the bow.

Orijaa recalled Domi firing in front of him just last month, arrows flying so wide they missed entire targets. The air had reeked of burnt hair from loose strands hitting the string. Now Domi danced. If they stumbled on a root or a rock they made up for it by dropping to their knees and firing from that position.

When the gas chamber emptied and left them arrowless, Orijaa called out: “A’kadii.”

They startled and cringed, shaking a smoking glove. “Damn it, Sornell!” they fumed. “What the  _ haran _ are you doing here!?” Domi glowered over their singed leather.

“Refill the chambers.”

“Didn’t your girlfriend ban you from seeing you?”

“You can’t ban a being with eyes from seeing.” Orijaa leaned against the sapling at his shoulder. “I’m not doing anything. I want to watch you kill another tree is all.” He pointed at the next largest. “How about that one?”

Domi scowled, but they crouched down to refill the energy bow. When they rose, they drew. Their body tensed unfavorably; a tight hand let the arrow fly short of its mark. They only hit home on the third attempt. “Happy, Sornell?”

“You care too much.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put the bow down.”

Domi deactivated the bow and strapped it onto their back, eyes like lasers in the shade. “What are you doing so far from the base?” they asked, voice taut as a plasma string.

“Push my arm back.” He held out his hand. “Hard as you can.”

They sighed and pushed; Orijaa didn’t budge.

“You didn’t answer my question,” they muttered, shifting away from him. “Did you follow me all the way out here?”

“You have too many questions for your own good,  _ verd’ika _ .” His voice took on a slow, lazy aspect. “Did you think I meant to jump you? That’s not warrior-like at all. Besides, I gave Jacinda my word: I wouldn’t try to--” He slammed his gauntlet down full force. Domi flinched back in time for the blow to hit their shoulder, not their face, and the second time they caught his hand. They didn’t budge. Even when Orijaa pushed hard, he couldn’t gain ground. Static prickled at his hair and fur.

“You’re  _ dini’la _ !”

Orijaa backed away with a shrug. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m off my rocker. You’re self-sabotaging. But you and I both know that, don’t we?” He turned and strode away.

“I’m telling Siegrain. I hope he breaks every bone in your worthless body.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tattle to your soulless brother. And what, pray tell, will you say to him? That you refuse to try your best because you’re afraid it won’t be enough?” Orijaa whirled around. “If you don’t get over yourself, it never will.  _ You _ never will. Now either stop walking out on Jacinda when she pushes you or quit. Quit now. Don’t bother staying here, don’t bother going home. I’ll get the paint stripper for your jaig eyes.” With a snap of his ponytail he whisked back whence he’d came.

The sound of a bow being thrown against a tree trunk echoed after him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an outtake from the Devaron’s Angels Discord server’s weekly prompt 024: Child. It didn’t fit in the story, so I made it a standalone short that takes place some time before the weekly prompt (around 2 BBY)

Orijaa stifled a yawn and stretched his arms over his head. His hair was in disarray and his armor was hastily fastened. Jacinda's latest vision had her proper spooked, and even now as he glanced her way she noticed her hand clenching the arm rest.

He sat back in his seat and set his eyes forward. The pilot's black, twisting horns rose in front of him.

All bark and no bite, that one. For all of Zkaltrops's protests and complaints, he was silent now. He brought the ship into a steady ascent through Devaron's atmosphere. Dorian sat adjacent, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Neither the blond nor Orijaa himself could beat the mess that was Jacinda's hair, and the thought made him smile to himself.

The ship powered through the atmosphere, shaking him in his seat, and soon the stars twinkled through the atmosphere. Dorian set coordinates while Zkaltrops lined them up and punched it.

Blue lights.

Next stop, some satellite temple in the Unknown Regions. Orijaa had no idea what laid ahead, and he felt light, free, eager. His terrible slump was over. Days of drudgery, going through the motions, never knowing what to do with his freedom… never knowing where to go past the next bounty…

Perhaps he shouldn’t be so carefree. The danger ahead threatened their lives… yet what was a life without a little (or a lot of) danger?

“I'm fixin’ to make caf, if anyone wants some.”

“Sure,” said Orijaa.

“Not you.”

Orijaa kicked the back of Zkaltrops’s seat.

The pilot stood up and shot him a glare. “You’re a big boy. You can fix it yourself.” He left the cockpit, Dorian close behind. Orijaa let them pass without incident. He didn’t miss the disapproving frown Jacinda sent his way, but he chose to look into hyperspace instead.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Orijaa is caught searching Zkaltrops’s starship quarters, Orijaa and Zkaltrops share a vision with disturbing implications...

_ The Sunder _ purred beneath Orijaa’s feet, gentle engines belying the frantic chase to lightspeed the freighter had just endured. He paused, finding the hall to the cockpit sealed. The impulsive side of his brain compelled him to press his ear against the airlock; he resisted, shaking his head and leaving the pilots to their celebrations.

Besides… this worked in his favor.

“Be right back,” he said to Jacinda as he passed the lounge. She nodded as he headed down the corridor, ostensibly towards the docking port of the  _ Tal’ad _ … only to loop around to the other side of the ship.

Orijaa tried the door to Zkaltrops and Dorian’s quarters. It slid aside, greeting him with darkness. 

Truly, he had no desire to dig through the odd man’s personal belongings. Whatever interests that one had ought to stay buried or behind closed doors. But there was an itch as of late whenever Orijaa stepped aboard… and when he scratched an itch, he always found something of note. Always.

He let the door shut behind him and flipped on the warm lights. His roamed about the cabin, letting his gaze scour the furnishings.

Orijaa stopped short.

Looked up.

Opened the smuggler’s box in the wall and reached in.

His hand closed around something smooth and twisting. He brought it down and drew breath when he recognized what he held. A horn. It was bulkier than Zkaltrops’s, but the shape was undeniably similar. He ran his thumb across the jagged break at the wider end.

The door opened.

Orijaa’s fist clenched around the broken horn and he spun about-face, holding it like a knife. He relaxed only marginally when he found Jacinda there, arms folded, awaiting an explanation.

“I…” Orijaa found none.

Still she waited.

“Jacinda, I have no idea what happened.” The compulsion was gone now, leaving him standing there with a dark flush up to his eartips. “This was his father’s,” he realized. “It must have broken off in the crash.” He gasped and let go at a sudden white-hot flare. The horn clattered to the floor.

“Orijaa!”

It felt like Jacinda had teleported to his side, grabbing his hand. Orijaa took a deep breath and stood there for  _ manda  _ knew how long, composing himself. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, lost for words. His hand didn’t hurt, but he was so sure something had… burned. Was this how Jacinda felt, constantly chain-jerked around the galaxy by visions?

The furry hackles down his spine prickled.

He looked up.

Zkaltrops stormed through the doorway, eyes ablaze. His metal hand curled into a first and drew back. Orijaa tensed to strike first, but Jacinda moved to intercept them and grabbed both of their shoulders--

A flash--

Orijaa stumbled back into the wall. It had only been a brief moment, but he  _ saw _ unfamiliar images in his head, images that didn’t belong to him. The vivid impressions were of his birth mother’s face, a face that had all but faded from his memories for many years until that very instant. He slumped, eyes wide, processing the lightning-quick vision as Zkaltrops stood before him frozen in place.

His birth mother smiled up at him, glittery, hair a mess, colorful lights pulsing behind her. Then the dark crowds and strobe lights were gone and she sat perched on a barstool, strumming a guitar Orijaa had seen Zkaltrops carry. Finally, a static image of her in a medbay bed with a little bundle of dark fur held in her arms. Hands that were not his own, rather, a dark pink hue reached for the baby devaronian.

He stared into the same red eyes, back in the present.

Older, rimmed with eyeliner, but… the same red.

Zkaltrops snatched the broken horn and stumbled out to Dorian in the hall, pushing past him to vanish down the corridor. Dorian went in pursuit.

As for Orijaa…

He slowly sat on the edge of a side table and stared down at his scuffed boots. Jacinda rested a hand on his shoulder and, with great difficulty, he lifted his gaze from the hardwood. The room spun.

“We…”

“I know. I saw.”

“She gave me up. She gave me up, but  _ Zkaltrops _ gets to--” Orijaa sucked in air and clenched his jaw, swallowing back his rage. Maybe it was a mistake. Without anger, he was left with… he shook his head, mind whirling about in desperate search of  _ something _ definitive to land on. The back and forth motions sent a fresh wave of achy vertigo through his skull.

“Orijaa…”

He tried to meet Jacinda's gaze and broke eye contact at once. The words rising to his lips burdened him with guilt unspoken; as he started to speak, the weight grew too heavy to keep his shoulders up and his voice level. “I thought I was here for  _ you _ .” He blinked hard. “You said the Force brought  _ us _ together, but if Zkaltrops and I…” He’d taken no stock in the Force before--or so he’d claimed. Now Orijaa felt nauseous. Like he’d taken a punch to the gut. “ _ Cyar’ika _ , what if we’re not meant to be together?”

Something flickered across Jacinda’s face--Orijaa was too distraught to read it, but he felt the flash. Complexities upon complexities.

“Do you think that?”

“No.” He answered at once. “ _ Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum _ .” With that, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, then he rose to his feet and wrapped Jacinda in a hug equal parts secure and shaking. He couldn’t tell whose benefit the embrace was for. Either way, he had no intentions of letting go until she asked him to.

Orijaa had some of Teyzkalt’s memories seared into his brain now. And though blood meant nothing in Mandalorian culture… though Orijaa proudly denounced his birth mother as  _ dar’buir _ and cared not for his early years… 

He couldn’t shake the image of her gem-like eyes… so dull as the Cartel had carried him away, yet so bright with that other baby in her arms.

Zkaltrops, insufferable Zkaltrops, was his  _ brother _ .


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young scavenger finds more than he bargained for in the wake of the Montellian Serat massacre…

A red light gleamed through the foliage. Jaller ducked around the nearest tree; plasma sent heated splinters through the air, scratching his tentacles. He gritted his teeth and levelled his concussion rifle. The probe darted away, but the blast caught it in a crippling wave. The explosion echoed through the trees.  
He approached the fallen probe, nudging it with his foot. The wound in the jungle was not worth one single Imperial probe droid, but better to singe her leaves and pray for her forgiveness than let the Empire put a bounty on his head.  
Jaller crushed the circuitry beneath his boot and doubled back through the trees.  
He crouched down to pass beneath a rocky overhang. The crumbling terrain concealed a dense patch of colorful ferns; among the reddish leaves laid a pink devaronian obscured by the contrasting hues. The man’s singed flight suit was caked with black blood, and his split lip left a garish mark across his burned and battered face. Gnats pestered the gruesome wounds weeping from his crushed limbs. The rise and fall of his chest was so shallow Jaller kept thinking he’d perished.  
From a crash site so severe, Jaller would never have expected survivors. Now, instead of salvage, he found himself transporting… live cargo. His hearts clenched in his chest at the sight of the broken horn in the survivor’s good hand.  
Something was better than nothing, but a piece of jagged horn…  
It was a brutal keepsake.  
Jaller knelt at the man’s side, propping him up and pressing a canteen full of fresh filtered water to his lips. It took some convincing to get it down--namely, pinching his nostrils until it went down. He managed a cough.  
He touched his forehead. Still burning hot. Beads of sweat trickled down his face despite the shivers that wracked his form. Jaller splashed some of the cold water onto his face and wiped away the fresh blood. “Stay with me,” he said in Devaronese. “We’re almost to the water speeder. I’ll get you back to your base.”  
No response.  
Jaller sighed. It was a miracle this man was still alive. Then again… Jaller’s hand traced the edges of the cybernetic eye grafted to his face. The prosthetic tentacle felt heavy and cold against the rest. It was a miracle he, too, was alive and almost in one piece.  
If the pilot was anything like Jaller, he’d make it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domi and Lorn elope (3 ABY).

The reeds rustled and swayed, casting clusters of shadows beneath the starlight. At sundown, every light across Clan A’kadii’s territory had gone out and plunged the countryside into darkness. It was a new moon; the heavens above sparkled across the lake’s polished surface and dazzled Domi’s eyes.

Another gust sent them huddling closer to Lorn. He drew an arm around their thin shoulders, crushed reeds crackling beneath them.

A thousand worries crowded Domi’s thoughts. The end of the war was so close, yet so far… what did it mean for the galaxy, for their home planets, for their friends? They were happy now. Domi didn’t want to lose that.

They didn’t want to lose their love.

Domi took Lorn’s hand and squeezed it as the first few streaks of light zigzagged overhead.  The two gazed up at the shooting stars, watching their brilliant paths through the black sky.

“Aren’t you going to make a wish?”

“Marry me.”

The words slipped out with ease into the night air. Domi turned and met Lorn’s stunned face with a smile. It took him a moment to speak, grappling with an attempt to infuse his tone with humor. “Who talks first? Me? You?”

Domi reached for his arms, clasping them in the traditional style. “Me.” They surprised themself with their steady grip, the level rise and falls of their chest, the stable rhythms of their twin hearts… a lifelong commitment should have scared them, but this was with Lorn. He was gorgeous beneath the starlight, down to his full lips and long lashes--better yet, he had a beautiful heart and mind to match. They didn’t realize they were smiling again until he mirrored the expression.

The vows left their lips, quiet, sure, Domi’s rasp first and Lorn’s deeper voice following. The night swallowed their words whole, whisking them away on the wind. Lorn drew Domi into a deep kiss, and the newlyweds laid by the lakeshore, content to watch the comet shower.


	25. Chapter 25

As if one pulse wasn’t bad enough, Domi’s two hearts aggravated their raging headache with twin beats. The beating on their eardrums continued unrelenting. They grimaced, limbs curling and twitching like a bug. Their mouth tasted of sharp metal.

The erratic staccato didn’t match their hearts.

Domi gasped, coughing on the breath, and sat up. They clutched their head at the spike of pain--was it more like glass or a nail? Their entire body ached in the way that screamed they’d pushed their powers and their health much too far. Bruises protested beneath the fresh plasma burns in their armor’s paint.

They couldn’t bring themselves to move again. In the darkness of their closed eyes, they saw the Imperial craft flying low over the street, laser cannons firing, breaking Abaddon’s formation. The impact had sent Domi flying.

Oh, hell.

A thudding rhythm brought them back into the present. A rotary blaster cannon! Domi lowered their hands. Russ stood on the smoking field, laying down cover fire. Other Angels, battered and burned by the strafing, struggled to rise across the bombed street.

Okay. Deep breath in… and… stand. They forced themself to their feet and gestured in Russ’s peripheral. Each movement sent a fresh spike through their skull. Domi nodded, wincing; Russ nodded back.

With that, Domi bolted down the charred street.

The hail of plasma from the cannon covered their stumbling dash. They paused at the wounded to administer the field care they could. Medical care took precious time. Force healing sapped their nonexistent strength, and spots danced in their vision. When Malak’s bleeding stopped beneath their hands and Flash’s sprain vanished after intense concentration, Domi’s world flickered black again. They hit the ground, earning more scrapes, then lurched back up to patch up shrapnel injuries the traditional way.

They fell to their knees behind a building corner and dry heaved. Eventually, even an empty stomach couldn’t stop them from throwing up. They’d exhausted all of their strength. They had nothing left to give. Shaking arms gave out and they hit the concrete.

“Domi!”

Not so quiet.

Domi glanced around to find Ryan hurrying down the road, soon towering over them. The sudden flurry of motions made the world spin faster than usual. “Oh,” they rasped. “Hey.”

Then they passed out again.


	26. Chapter 26

**“rescue” mission**

Dezi Vox, under her armored alias “Casra Sardos”, enlisted Clan A’kadii mercenaries to rescue her berserk cousin from the Empire’s wrath. It’s up to Domi Sabress to ensure the team’s efforts aren’t wasted… 

**characters:** Domi Sabress, Siegrain Vox, Dezi Vox (under alias Casra Sardos)

**word count:** 392

**warnings:** gore, suicidal ideation

Once again, Domi found themself out of their depth. That was nothing new. Kneeling arms-deep inside of a devaronian’s abdominal cavity?

Now, that was new.

They were the only damned medic on board and their powers paled in comparison to their comrades at Bral Prudii. Domi’s vision swam. Hell, even their thoughts blurred around the edges. At least the intestines had wormed their way back into the abdominal cavity. Guts had minds of their own.

Before them, the former Twenty-Sixth Inquisitor Siegrain Vox’s insides were no longer his outsides. The arteries still spurted blood across Domi’s armor with each labored pulse. No technology would seal them, which left only the Force. Their draining vitality searched for another source of power… and found a wellspring at their fingertips.

Of course! The victim himself. They siphoned what remained from the brutalized Inquisitor’s conscious–

Domi recoiled with a shriek.

Tingling shot through their limbs. Their strength was restored as if the foreign power had splashed ice water across their face. But with it came a flash of abstract imagery, of understanding, of pain.

“I… I’m fine,” they stammered. So, too, was the rogue Inquisitor. The ugly wound still dribbled beads of blood, but the arteries no longer sprayed across Domi’s clothes. Skin covered the hip bone again. A real surgeon and bacta could mend him. “What have I done?” they muttered, averting their gaze from the scene.

“Beautiful work. Thank you, Sabress.” Casra’s electronic vocoder grated against their eardrums. “I’m in you and your clan’s debt. I don’t take those words lightly–”

“You shouldn’t have brought me,” they snapped.

“What?”

“You’re fucked in the head if you think this is charity.” Domi rounded on Casra Sardos, the foreigner who wore Mandalorian armor, and glared into her illuminated visor. “You kriffing aruetii!” Domi lurched forward; Casra caught their fist.

“You volunteered.”

“Not everyone wants to be saved!”

A pause. The lights flickered and the hyperdrive hummed to life.

“I know.”

Domi gave a scream of rage that hit Casra like a physical blow. The surge of strength left their limbs and dizziness overtook them. They spat at their employer, then staggered out of the medbay into the arms of one of their clansmen. He caught them before they fell.

“Don’t touch me.” They shook him off and fled to the back of the ship. There they sank to the floor and stared at the acrid black blood covering their arms.

Pain.

So much pain.

Domi put their head in their hands and wept bitterly.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ill-fated blood duel that brought Domi to the doorstep of death and Devaron’s Angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: suicide
> 
> a/n: *Solh’ukar was a Taung warrior bard who authored a poem questioning whether death is an honor or the highest form of cowardice. He was executed for his words, ironically making them popular.

The armored body grew colder as the shouts grew louder. Domi kept their head bowed low even though it meant staring straight down at the dead Mandalorian. She’d offered Domi a share of her food on the way over. Now her blue blood stained Domi’s traditional hand wraps an odd color.

“House A’kadii hides behind the Force. Without it, where would you be? Ancient history! You’re cockroaches, all of you, crawling around without your heads and refusing to succumb to the inevitable while the real warriors do the dying for you!”

Domi dug their fingers into the soil and clenched a fist, pulling up grass. The earth, too, bore the bluish stains of death.

“You’re out of line. Take the body and go.”

“Go? After your so-called healer--”

“You know she was dead by the time our healer got to her. Leave them be.”

“Do they have nothing to say for themself? Hey, you. I’m talking to you. Come on. Get up. Do you know what I think you are? You and your entire House?”

Voices of protest rang out, then a word cut through like a plasma arrow.

“A  _ hut’unn _ .”

The word hit the party with the full effect of an orbital bombardment. Dead silence rang louder than the shouting match, air still as if even nature held its breath. Domi rose to their feet, one heavy step then another, then turned to face the loose ring of Mandalorian warriors.

Soren rested a hand on their shoulder. “Let it go.”

Their tongue felt numb and heavy in their mouth, the rest of their body as hollow a vessel as the corpse they’d turned their back on. Dead, alive. A fine line. The belligerent man said something that went in one ear, out the other. The world buzzed. “I invoke the ancient rites.”

Soren grabbed their arm. “ _ Kad’ika _ , no--”

“I challenge you to a blood duel.”

A great murmuring rose at that solemn pact. Domi yanked their arm free of Soren’s grip and stepped forward.

“You just said A’kadiis aren’t Mandalorians. If you truly believe that, then there’s no duel.” A nightsibling spoke up, speaking so fast the words stumbled over each other. “No more lives have to be lost today. Go home.”

“A challenge is a challenge. And who, exactly, is your healer?”

“Solh’ukar*,” said Domi.

More murmuring.

The ring of  _ mando’ade  _ tightened. Fists beat a slow, somber rhythm against armor like war drums--a funeral dirge playing too soon. Helmet visors glinted in the torchlight and shadows danced between their ranks. Like Domi, the shadow-people flickered without substance, presence, or form.

The other Mandalorian stood at the opposite side of the circle, standing tall beneath the moonlight; he didn’t bother to reach for a weapon.

Instead, he came in with his fists.

Blow after blow smashed down on clumsy blocks. As the circle grew smaller the many helmets swam around them; a punch to the temple sent stars and sparks flying across the dark sky. Domi coughed and gasped at the warm blood gushing from their nostrils and down the back of their throat. Another strike slammed them backwards with a crushing force and, as they hit the ground, no air reached their lungs.

The roaring in their ears became the roaring of the crowd.

A cry: “ _ Kad’ika _ !”

Finally they ripped a breath from their aching chest. They caught sight of a slender hilt jutting from their chest, wedged at an angle between their armor’s diamond.

They grasped the hilt.

A boot stomped their face once, twice. As the stars swam in the  _ manda  _ above, those boots continued their circle. Domi gagged at the thick metallic taste and clenched their hand hard, pulling up. Their arm fell back to their side. The vibroblade almost slipped from fingers that refused to respond.

He crouched down.

Domi spat, spraying dark red across his helmet.

And as he flinched, they brought the blade forward with the last of their strength. The tip sunk beneath the edge of his helm. As the weapon fell, the telltale spurt of an artery caught Domi across the face.

He stumbled out of sight.

Shapes blurred across Domi’s vision and noise screamed in their ears--unless that was their own scream, but all they could feel was the crushing pressure in their chest like all the gravity in the universe gathered in that one point.

Green and black shifted into a face.

Soren.

Domi choked out a few last words. What they were, they couldn’t say. The galaxy still crushed them into the grass, and the face was fading and something stopped them from thrashing even though they tried and  _ I changed my mind I changed my mind I-- _


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Siegrain Vox survives his flight from the Inquisitorius, Siegrain and Domi become an unlikely pair on the lam from the Empire…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Please don’t kill me! The intention behind Siegrain and Domi’s relationship is to advance my platonic love agenda (as in, you can be in love without romantic/sexual attraction). However… societal norms and pop culture can cause a lot of confusion, as seen above. Labels were forced on these two in their past iterations, and I hope it doesn’t happen again

“We lost them.”  
Domi crouched down beside Siegrain, gasping for air. Their insides twisted, cramping from the abuse of malnutrition and the horrors of exercise. “Who knew… being on the run… meant so much... running?” They sagged against the wall. Strong arms caught them and helped them sit up properly.  
“It’s a lot of running,” Siegrain muttered.  
“Are you even tired?”  
“Yes?”  
“Liar.”  
Siegrain chuckled. The deep sound echoed through the empty parking garage, wrapping Domi up in a comforting, near-tangible embrace.  
He looked so much better nowadays. The artificial lighting failed to dampen his regal looks. Black clothing and hints of jewelry contrasted against the deep purple hue of his skin, and the bare bulbs above flickered across his sharp bone structure. An easy smile rested on his face. He’d looked so washed out during his long recovery, but his color was back and his eyes shone with an inner light.  
On days like these, it was easy to forget how broken he was.  
“Kad’ika?”  
“Mm?”  
Siegrain leaned in. His face hovered close to theirs, tilting with uncertainty. Domi swallowed, suddenly aware of the bead of sweat dripping down their ribcage and gathering at their palms. Their hearts fell out of sync.  
He pressed his lips to their forehead.  
Domi flushed up to their ear tips and hugged their knees to their chest, focusing on the crumbling ferrocrete around them. The relief made their head spin. The expanse of the garage threatened to overwhelm them.  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I… care about you.”  
“Right.”  
“And I can’t lose you.”  
Before they could continue, the sound of a lightsaber igniting echoed up the stairwell. The drone ricocheted off so many surfaces Domi couldn’t tell which floor it originated from. Siegrain’s eyes turned red and his snarl bounced down to chase the loud hum.  
“Run?”  
“Run.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dezi and Snær’s spy games get too personal, Dezi makes a hard call

The Devaron’s Army officer sat at her desk, back to the window. The points of dark purple ears protruded above the curly fur that scrawled up her neck. The baby hairs freed from her silvering dreadlocks shone bright like a wispy halo, illuminated by the holoscreens hovering about the projector. At a glance, topography, rebel activity, IDs, and more stood out across the wide array.

Soon the swiping and typing ceased. The officer shook her head, rose, and disappeared into an adjacent room.

Once the side door shut, Dezi trained her gauntlet’s thermal laser to the tinted glass. She tested the beam. The silent alarm should be off, but if it wasn’t… she’d have no way to know until a security droid popped up and scanned through her stealth shield. After a tense minute of cutting and watching for movement, Dezi slipped the laser into a belt pouch and kicked in the circle of transparisteel.

_ Thud _ . She landed catfooted and backed into a corner.

When the officer returned, she failed to notice the sabotaged window as she scrolled through a datapad, scowling at the readout. Dezi took shallow breaths, conscious of the weight of her armor and the folds of her tactical leather jacket. She edged forward on the toes of her boots.

After all these years, Riss Vox looked the same. The hard lines etched at her eyes and mouth spoke of a woman who spent her days emoting judgement and distaste. Her harsh gaze flickered to the window--

Dezi deactivated her stealth shield.

Riss reached to her belt, but the crisp uniform held no weapons. She bared her teeth and backed towards the exit door, but she found it locked. The toggle refused to respond to the entry code.

“You look tired, mom.”

It took a moment to register. Eyes widened with shock, then anger.

“ _ You _ .”

“Me,” Dezi agreed, steeling herself. That single word, spoken through Riss’s clenched teeth, portrayed the hatefulness so commonly heard in the Vox household when they’d all lived under the same roof and played pretend. She fought the urge to remove her helmet--she’d already scrubbed her DNA best she could from her kit, and she couldn’t risk a single hair follicle falling. Instead she minimized most of the HUD icons in her field of vision. 

Riss’s curt response made Dezi jump: “Why are you here?”

“To talk.”

“So you want to negotiate.”

Dezi’s eyes stared off at a point past Riss’s shoulder, drifting towards the window where little snowflakes danced over the military installment. She noticed Riss’s hand creeping down towards her boot and shook her head in a silent warning.

“What do you want? Information? Codes?”

“Closure.”

The woman’s lips curled, exposing sharp teeth. “You won’t get that here.”

“I know you think you have this under control, sitting at your high backed office chairs and reading your reports, but… the Imperial is using you. You’re just a pawn. He’s making this personal, trying to draw me out--”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“He’ll throw you away sooner or later. You’ve already stumbled.” Dezi gave a sad little sigh. “Apprehending contacts I understand. Torturing them, your own people, to death? I… I was the first to find some of the bodies. One of them sixteen years old. Closed casket funeral. Can you imagine the family’s anguish?”

“They knew the--”

“Risks? Sure. But to die like that… at the hands of their own people, people who should be supporting them in the fight against the Empire…” She sighed, watching Riss creep closer to their desk and slide a hand under the wood.  _ Click _ . And with that click came a heavy finality. Dezi’s shoulders grew heavy, eyes drooping like her mother’s. “I disabled the panic button. It’s over, mother, I…”

The words Dezi intended to say died at her lips. Tears fell unbidden, touching a trembling smile. As dad used to say, devils weren’t in the details after all. Devaronians preferred change. Best to stay flexible. “I’m sorry,” she said, drawing one of her blasters. “I just thought… no. I don’t know what I thought. I’m just sorry.” Flexible? Lifting the blaster level to Riss Vox’s forehead felt like bending until her spine snapped.

“Dezinya Vox, you wouldn’t dare--”

_ Bdap _ .


	30. Chapter 30

Jaller pushed through the bead curtains. They clattered behind him, announcing his arrival to the salvage shop. “Momma!” he called. “I’m home!”  
The big woman turned and put her hands on her hips, giving him a once over. He smiled apologetically at the dirt and grime covering his body, and he shifted his weight as subtle as he could beneath her intense, unblinking stare. His ankle was fractured for sure, but they couldn’t afford to get it looked at.  
His hearts sunk at the reminder.  
“What’s wrong, baby?”  
“My waterspeeder’s breaking down. I walked it back the last few kilometers. I’ll take a look at the manual tonight and see if I can swap--”  
“You’ll do no such thing. You’re exhausted. We’re having dinner as a family tonight, and then you’re going to bed.” She smiled to soften the blow. “I’m happy you’re home. You had me worried.” She wrapped him in a hug, and he pressed his cheek into her shoulder. The smell of metal and rock scrubs gave him a sense of security for the first time since he’d left. “Go on, set the table with your sister.”  
She returned to the counter where Jaerbemum, Jaller’s stepdad, stood slicing vegetables. He made no move to acknowledge Jaller, but Jaller couldn’t blame him. He nodded in the man’s direction anyway.  
Jaller limped to the table where Zhonzoa stood piling droid mods into a crate. She’d washed the muck from her ginger fur, and she’d tied her hair out of her face in a high ponytail. It was always strange to see her eyes, a pale green that betrayed her young age. The splash of freckles added to the image of a teenager.  
She looked so solid, unlike her flickering presence in the jungle. Here she didn’t fade in and out of reality.   
“Well? Silverware.”  
He grinned and set the cutlery down at four places. With each suspicious squint she sent his way, he merely smiled.  
Finally she stepped in close, holding a plate like she was considering it as a weapon. “You’re hurting,” she muttered. Her dialect was familiar and foreign all at the same time. “You ought to get that mended, you dolt.”  
“Can’t afford it.”  
“How many times do I have to tell you, injuries are more costly in the long… run.” Zhonzoa’s voice faltered, and she looked past Jaller to the counter. He followed her gaze, and he realized the radio was softly playing in the corner. Ma and Jaerbemum swayed to the crackling tune, holding hands.  
“I… I can’t tell them,” he said, blinking away excess moisture from his eyes. “I’ll have no salvage left for them when I finish my repairs. We could miss a payment. It was hard enough coming back with so little.”  
“Well, brother… “ Zhonzoa sighed. “At the very least, you may consider letting me do the splint this time.”  
“Alright.”  
They watched their parents as the song winded down. Jaller took a shuddering breath, and Zhonzoa slid her hand into his. She squeezed gently, then let go as the oven beeped and the radio faded into the background of food prep and conversation.


	31. Chapter 31

Devaron’s Angels Weekly Prompts 034: Sun

Domi tells the story of their blood duel.

characters: Domi Sabress, Orijaa Sornell, Siegrain Vox  
word count: 1087

Sunlight filtered through the boughs of ancient trees, dappling the ground with bright green. Three of devaronian blood interrupted the patterns with their forms, picking through dense undergrowth in search of their own paths. Some led through stinging moss, others through carnivorous columns of formicidae.  
Domi accepted their place at the back of the group. The weak lagged while the strong took the brunt of malign lichens.  
Where Orijaa strode in a straight line, only altering his course to clear obstacles or leave dead foliage uncrunched, Siegrain meandered. The backstage pass to the mannerism of their companions appealed to Domi, enough to put a smile on their lips. In truth these men walked the same, but it took careful glances through the archer’s wild hair to spy the reason behind the large devilman’s path: mushrooms, insects, flowering weeds.  
Orijaa pretended he didn’t care; Siegrain couldn’t. Out of the three Sieg lacked a helmet, and for the life of them Domi couldn’t imagine their brother behind a mask.  
“Weather’s gone to shit,” they griped. The air clung to them. Each breath left their chest heavy and their head light; after cool winds and fresh rain whisked past, the jungle rivalled the hot springs on Dathomir. The storm had fled the skies and taken shelter in Siegrain’s countenance. Every few paces took Sieg father from Orijaa like moons drifting from their planets. Moons without masks, moons that wore suspicious glances on the surfaces tidal locked towards a planet.  
“You always say that, little sword.” Finally Siegrain spoke, in Mando’a. It took audible effort, but no better time to practice than with two fluent speakers.  
“Not always. Not when the cold rains blow in.”  
Orijaa arched a brow. The sunlight caught violet eyes and gave them a sparkle, amethyst to Siegrain’s rose quartz. With stray hairs of iridescent blue trailing around his face, he cut the regal figure of a Neo-Crusader. “I remember you owing us a story, A’kadii, and not small talk about the weather.”  
“I don’t owe you shit, pretty boy.”  
“Come on, regale us.”  
“You don’t have to,” Siegrain said, so quickly his rich tone faltered. His decorated brows drew together, eyes searching Domi’s.  
A tiny nod. His tension eased.  
“Alright, alright. Gather around the campfire, warriors, for the storyteller has a tale ready to fall upon your ears.” Domi overtook the two and ducked beneath low-hanging vines in their way with ease. They walked backwards to observe well-endowed Siegrain’s struggle. “A war party assembled one fateful night with the constellation of Pajarad on the horizon, the great Clan A’kadii seething among them: honor besmirched, rivalries inflamed.”   
“Behold, the storyteller’s liberal usage of Basic for flowery synonyms. Watch as they slip from the mother tongue to speak like the damned.”  
“You’re a bitch, Sornell.”  
“I know, A’kadii.”  
Domi rolled their eyes and seized a dead stick from the ground, hefting its weight in their hands. “Sure, most traditional orators say ‘if you have to use Basic, you’re trying to hard’, but trying too hard got me published,” they said. “Now, an interloper towered above the crowd, an unwanted and unexpected guest. He scorned magic, too blinded by his hatred to understand all things are born of it. One A’kadii stood their ground on their rightful land, proud yet humble before the ranks of their fellow warriors. Behind them gleamed Pajarad, and with starlight at their brow they appeared to be one the old legend’s chieftains fallen from the cosmos to fight among the living souls. This being rose to the challenge with only the weapon in their hand.” Domi swiped the stick through the moist air.  
“You don’t fight with a blade.”  
“Who says you can’t smack a foreigner with an energy bow?”  
Orijaa sucked his teeth.  
“Now shut up and listen, for this duel is a harrowing one worthy of a gladitorial pit like your own.” Domi whacked the stick on anything unfortunate enough to lay within range. They lunged between gnarled roots, giving old bark vicious swipes that sent splinters flying. “The fight drew near to the edge of the waters. Nearer, nearer, nearer still.”  
They took a deep breath and leapt to the top of a rocky protrusion, leaving them high above their companions.  
“The A’kadii looked victorious, but a low blow sent them toppling--” they jumped down, boots sinking in peat with a squelch-- “into the river. The blade came down.” Domi thrust the stick against the rock. The compromised wood broke with a CRACK!  
Siegrain flinched while Orijaa raised that wayward brow.  
“And so the vernal rapids claimed the A’kadii warrior.” Domi spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the great jungle any further. “But the power coursing through their veins refused to let their blood spill into the waters of their people, and their wounds did not claim them. They washed ashore into the arms of their brethren. According to the ancient laws, the duel had not reached its natural conclusion--yet. With the magicks of their people giving them strength, they rose against their challenger and struck the blasphemous fiend down. Their House decorated them for their bravery with jaig eyes.” Domi traced the jagged markings at their cheekbones. “The story lives on, inked into their skin.”  
The two men stood almost shoulder to shoulder now, scrutinizing Domi in their own ways. Siegrain suppressed a smile--the corners of his lips twitched. Orijaa’s brow sat closer to his hairline than his eye by that point, yet the gaze that met Domi’s held a grudging admiration that sent the sharp points of their teeth into their tongue to hide a smile of their own.  
“I’m willing to believe there’s a nugget of truth in there somewhere,” said Orijaa, rolling his eyes and tossing his ponytail. It curled in the humidity. “But for you to win a duel, the fiend must have been a pitiful creature.”  
“Alright, ring king, if you’re so high and mighty why don’t you go ahead and lead the way for the peasants?”  
“Oh no, I’m going back. It’s damper than a Hutt’s asscheeks out here. I’m going to enjoy the A/C while you two catch blood warts from a mosquito.” With one last suspicious look Domi’s way, Orijaa trudged off. And so the Forcehunter, brave and bold, fled from the jungle moisture and the sunlight.  
“Domi,” said Siegrain, “That was the plot of last week’s holofilm.”  
Their tattoos stretched in a grin worthy of a firaxan shark. “Oh, I know. But King Sornell doesn’t go to movie night.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schnapsidee: a German word for an absurd idea (implying the idea is so crazy only a drunk person could have thought of it)

_ Clunk! _

Rahztak jumped at the dull metallic ring, face chitin rattling. They almost dropped the miniature hydrospanner in their hand. “Damn it, Dezi!” They turned their back on the broken sonic emitter at their workstation, thoughts on the cracked control chip scattered to the wind. “What the hell was that--ohhh _ hhh _ …”

Their vocoder faded to a low drone, recognizing the compact box of simple circuitry plunked down on the counter. It was a mouse droid, no doubt about it.

_ The  _ mouse droid.

“What the hell was  _ that _ ? What the hell is  _ this _ ?”

“It’s…” Rahztak hummed, plinking their index fingers together. “It’s a maintenance droid.”

“Yeah? Anything you wanna add, ‘cuz?”

“It’s a… a maintenance droid with a vibroblade attachment.”

Dezi’s leather jacket creaked as she folded her arms, fur conditioner fighting the smells of speeder oil and coolant at her hands. “Gliktyi Rahztak, honestly. Between you and Lusel. Are you trying to sever some poor bastard’s tendon?”

“I-I… n-n-n…” 

She leaned against the counter, sending another wave of fur detangler and grease their way. In another context, the scents of autoshop and devaronian toiletries would soothe their nerves; in actuality, the interrogation did the exact opposite. Rahztak buzzed quietly and wrung their hands as she tap-tap-tapped at the mouse droid deactivated before him.

_ Tap. _

_ Tap. _

_ Tap. _

“Ichax helped!” Rahztak blurted.

Dezi stilled her hand, silencing the insufferable taps… and burst out laughing. Rahztak buzzed along in a high wavering note, still wringing the life out of their prosthetic hands.

“Well, well. You’d better get Ichax out of that storage bin.”

A metal lid scraped in the corner.

“...it was their idea?”

The muscles at Dezi’s face stretched, and Rahztak cowered. They could only hope that was a grin and not a snarl; without eyes, it was hard to tell the expressions apart. Her amused response allayed their fears. “I need to plant a rigged mouse droid on a Star Destroyer.” Dezi patted the boxy droid. “I’m looking for something crazy. Real crazy. You two up for the job?”

Rahztak slumped with relief. Dezi might put a knife through their breathing apparatus someday, but today was not that day. “Always!” they chirped, giving Dezi an ok sign. It only shook slightly. “We’ll give you crazy, no problem.”

“Attaboys.”


	33. Chapter 33

The wind tousled Emery's hair. With each new handhold on the city tower's lattice-like structure, the whisper through his loose strands grew more insistent. His arms burned. Beside him bobbed a probe droid, lights winking with mischief. The lucky bastard hovered instead of climbed. Yesterday’s workout left his shoulders--still too bony for his tastes--throbbing, but he hauled himself over the edge of the roof without breaking a sweat.

The dark sky held a hint of a blue glow. Past the myriad of neon lights, Emery hoped to photograph the predawn light.

As long as he watched the sun rise each day, he knew he’d be alright. Those days breaking onto the Imperial Academy rooftop until morning roll call had taught him one thing: one day at a time. Live for the next dawn.

In the open air, he could taste freedom on the breeze.

Emery raised his hands and made a picture frame with his fingers. It was a good angle, but it would be even better from the skyscraper’s spire. The holo boards would form a neon glow off-camera, tinging the tops of the towers . . .

One of the holos switched screens to a wanted poster. Emery dropped his hands and glared at the familiar face.

“They did you dirty.”

He nearly toppled over the edge. Quick reflexes saved him from a dizzying drop, and he rose to glare at the woman standing in the shadows of the spire. Thankfully Emery recognized that feminine rasp, each syllable charged with a casual attitude.

“Your old academy photos, your old cadet ID number… the Imps are broadcasting your old everything.” She looked past him and arched her brows. “Now there’s a recent picture. You got caught on a security cam, didn’t you, kid? This changes things. The Empire knows who to look for now.”

“You best quit poaching my sites.”

“Ain’t no poacher. I’m helping a cousin out is all. May I?” She crossed the roof and joined him at the edge, standing a respectful distance away. That holo board switched screens again, leaving the past behind… or so he thought. “We need to talk. Your momma’s back in town.”

Emery shuddered; he blamed it on the night air. “What do you know about her?”

“Enough. She wants you alive.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Yeah? There’s a squad of stormtroopers coming up the lift. They got eyes on the streets and that hostel you like. Take the causeway. Meet me at your blondie friend’s place.”

Blondie friend… the realization hit like ice water to the face. Emery’s supposed ‘attitude’ had left him drenched by thrown drinks plenty of times--it was more or less the same feeling. He squared his jaw. “Bun snitched?”

“Nah. Your shoes were in the back of last week’s stream, so I asked around.” The relief lasted but a heartbeat; the lift door blinked. “You got seconds, little man. You gonna jump?”

Emery grabbed his probe droid and jumped.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glitch fine tunes their handiwork.

Emery grimaced at the fresh stab of prickly, needle-like pain. “Dr. Gliktyi Rahztak, you are getting a terrible review after this procedure. One star. This feels terrible.”

“Neuropathic pain is supposed to feel terrible. I'd be concerned if it didn't. You trusted me to build you a new spine, now trust me to recalibrate it."

“Yeah, yeah, you done yet?”

“Yes.”

He sighed his relief.

“With the thoracic spine.”

“Okay… maybe we don’t have to recalibrate the entire thing. I’m fine. Really. I can walk, I can run, I can climb. I’m a new man!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Whoa. No need to use pet names, doc. I have a boyfri—  _ hey _ !” Another stab. Emery’s muscles spasmed, but before he could relax or protest it was over again.

“Your lumbar looks beautiful. Now for your sacrum.”

Emery rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that bad. Just like a sleeping limb finally waking up… to find itself in a swarm of devaronian acid ants. He rode out the jolts in silence, instead focusing on the musical buzzes of the doctor’s chitin face and rebreather. Cold metal fingers ghosted over the exposed wires in his back, sealing the new vertebrae ports one by one.

“I am almost done, but…  _ hzzmm _ .”

“You sound annoyed,” said Emery. “Annoyed is not ideal.”

“Relax your muscles.”

“That doesn't sound ideal either— ah  _ fuck _ !” The moan that left his lips was as involuntary as the convulsion. His body arched like he’d grabbed a live wire. It took a few shuddering breaths to collect himself. “Rahz… what in stars name…”

“What?”

“Don’t what me.” The shiver that shot up his cyberspine was not at all the doctor’s work. “Ugh. Hell. What the hell?”

“Your artificial nerves are fully integrated in the sacral area. S2 through S4 had a low readout post-op. I'm not surprised. You shattered that region in the fall."

“In super basic Basic?”

“David will be happy.”

Emery put his face down in his arm. As Rahztak skimmed through outputs and residual shocks traced down his legs, he just had to laugh.


End file.
